


Feet First, Don't Fall

by michaelfalls



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Because it's the 80s, Closeted Characters, Complicated Relationships, Depression, M/M, Mentions of drinking/getting high because music industry, Vaguely inspired by A Star Is Born's soundtrack
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-04
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27871778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/michaelfalls/pseuds/michaelfalls
Summary: Right as the chorus hits, there, in the middle of the dance floor, sweaty and smiling and achingly stunning, a boy with hair of gold and eyes of diamonds.Time stops. Michael slows.God, he is beautiful.
Relationships: Michael/Adam Milligan
Comments: 6
Kudos: 24





	1. Give Up The Lover

**Author's Note:**

> Playlist: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/32TSUVoe5gRIvnqPArXXbh?si=4lwv4321RoOmScA2bWUoMw

_Tell me how all this, and love too, will ruin us.  
_ **Richard Siken**

**November 19, 1980**

**— Lincoln, Nebraska —  
Memorial Stadium**

“50 seconds to stage. Where’s Michael?”

“Probably getting drunk. It’s a big arena,” Crowley mumbles, raising his own flask to his lips before picking up his drumsticks, the edges already faded from how worn they’ve gotten. “It’s not the first time, Chuck. He’ll be here.”

“40 seconds. Seriously?”

Meg’s leg bounces up and down as she makes sure all the knobs on her guitar are in place. Crowley goes out on stage to check if the microphones set up for his drums are in working order, and the crowd screams his name. Meg wonders how they can even see him in the near-dark. She’s in the curtains and she can barely make out his silhouette.

“Fuck’s sake, call the bastard,” Meg says, rolling her eyes.

Chuck’s assistant, some blonde girl called Becky Rosen, brushes past the band, calling out, “30 seconds!”

Outside, the fans are starting to chant the band’s name, no doubt also aware that the night’s show is about to begin. Lilith adjusts her feathered fringes in the reflection of her pocket mirror as she says, “If he turns up high, I’m gonna whack him with my guitar so hard he’ll never need to get high again.”

“20!”

“Screw it. We’ll do the show without him,” Meg grumbles, grabbing her guitar and slinging the leather strap over her shoulder. She checks her makeup one more time and takes her place on the stage. Crowley scans backstage—no sight of their singer.

“Cut the house lights!” Chuck calls out to the lighting girl. He turns to Crowley, Lilith and Meg and says, “I already sent someone to find him fifteen minutes ago. Nothing we can do now if he can’t be found. Meg, you take over vocals.”

“3, 2, 1… Break a leg, you guys,” Becky says as Chuck disappears backstage. The lights come on and Lilith plays the riff she plays at the start of every show to get the audience amped up.

They’re already loud, then they get louder, and they realise that someone has run onstage.

Michael turns his face up to the neon lights and his hands open at his sides. _This never gets old._

He takes the microphone off of its stand and shouts into it, “Good evening, Nebraska! How are you doing tonight?” The crowd responds with screams that has Michael glad that they were given earplugs before every show. It made the sound muddy but at least he could still hear his own voice after the gig. “Right, we’re gonna play a couple of songs for you, sound good?” They scream in excitement once more and Lilith and Crowley jump into the opening beat of _Flight Risk_ with the bass guitar and drums.

Meg moves closer to Michael, fingers ready on the beginning chord of the song, and hisses, “Where the hell were you?”

“Does it matter? I’m here now, right?” Michael replies, flipping the microphone in his hands as he starts to sing. “ _Baby, I’ve tried lying before. I don’t like your contradictions but I fucking love your odds._ ”

“That’s not how it goes.”

“What are you talking about? Of course, that’s how it goes. I came up with the fuckin’ tune, jackass,” Meg mutters around her cigarette, lazily getting her bass guitar in tune as she sits up in her chair. Her leather jacket stretches over her shoulders as she gets into position, once again strumming the same three chords from the fifth track on their setlist for the new tour, _The Empty_.

They’d released a self-titled album, _Give Up The Ghost_. With Michael as the designated frontman since he was the lead singer, Meg, Crowley and Lilith were all in favour of having the band name be related to his biblical counterpart. The four of them pored over every page of a copy of the bible that they got from a hotel room, underlining phrases they liked best. Ultimately, they were agreeable on “give up the ghost _”._

To give up the ghost means to die. Michael thinks it’s fitting.

“That sounds more like it,” Lilith says from the table, her pencil loudly scratching rough paper as she works on lyrics for their next album. All of them wrote music for the band, but most of the songs that the band has put out are Michael’s or Crowley’s, mainly because they were a bit more eloquent. While Michael wrote about heartache, Crowley wrote about satisfaction. Meg writes about wrath and Lilith writes about chaos and rebellion.

“It was already accurate,” Michael mutters, reading over the title he had written down at the top of the page for a new song: _Garden of Eden_. “You’re all picky over nothing.”

“ _Thank_ you!” Meg says loudly. “Finally, someone here who actually knows what the fuck they’re talking about.”

_Garden of Eden_

Michael’s pen taps mindlessly on the top of the notepad, the title of the song staring back at him with an audacity that makes him want to hurl the pad across the room and knock off the vase of flowers Crowley’s mother put in the tour van. Already, the pointless light-hearted bickering of his bandmates was getting to Michael because his girlfriend is coming to visit them in a matter of minutes.

The problem with the said girlfriend is that, while wordlessly gorgeous with a mind-melting British accent and a smile that will numb the pain of any soul, Michael didn’t feel the gravity of her stunning features. He didn’t love her—at least, not in the way he should if she was his girlfriend.

Needless to say, all his love songs about heartache and yearning have never been about Bela Talbot.

Michael is gay. He wasn’t sure if he wanted anyone to know despite how lonely it made him feel. In times like these, stardom was the only shield against being killed for the fact and though he knew his name could fill arenas of over 10,000, he still didn’t feel like he was ready. His only source of consolation was the fact that Crowley was more outward with his attraction to people regardless of gender and was doing just fine, at least for their time.

Eventually, the loneliness won out and he sought comfort in Crowley who readily offered his company for the nights when it gets too desolate, though Michael always felt a little empty afterwards. Not because he regretted it, but because he didn’t love Crowley either no matter how many times he went back to his bedroom. The escapades held no meaning to Michael, and while Crowley liked joking about some of Michael’s songs being about him, they really weren’t.

The truth is, Michael has never been in love. He’d never let himself because he thinks it will hurt more than if he was alone—with a mother who thought their father was insane and walked out on them after shipping him off to a mental institution, Michael doesn’t know the first thing about what it’s like to be loved. He didn’t know how to love someone back, and he sure as hell had no idea how to fall in love and allow himself to be loved in return.

He writes about love all the time and either sing the words in small basements where the ceiling leaks onto creaking stages and there’s barely a hundred people or he will shout them until he’s crying on the stage in front of thousands. Yet, ironically enough, love was entirely foreign to him. He’s not even sure if he’s capable of feeling it, and unsure whose fault that is exactly.

He scribbles dark angry lines across the title and replaces it with another:

_YOU ARE NOT YOUR OWN_

Michael huffs a cynical laugh to himself. He has never belonged to himself. He never will.

“I think _Fantastic Bastards_ and _Flight Risk_ should switch places on the setlist, it's hard to play them in the order they've been in,” Crowley suggests. “What do you think?”

“Do whatever you think is best,” Michael answers, not looking up from the paper in his hands. “I don’t care.”

Lilith scoffs. “Someone’s got an attitude.”

“I don’t have an attitude.”

“Whatever,” Crowley mumbles, not in the mood for a pointless argument over a half-assed answer. Sure, a setlist is important, but Michael also doesn’t care. The song’s still going to be played by the end of the night so the order never mattered to him. Plus, the order changed every other show. There’s no point in even discussing what arrangement was best. “What’s the next city after this one?”

“Kansas. Wichita, I believe,” Michael says, narrowing his eyes at the ceiling as his memory pulls up the hazy memory of the list of shows on their tour flyer. The flyer itself really only looks good in black and white, an opinion shared by his brothers Castiel and Gabriel, but their manager Chuck also had the flyer printed in duotone, some overly saturated shades of red and yellow that looks ugly as shit. He can’t believe Chuck let those be printed and distributed—it’s an embarrassment.

“And then after?”

“That’s the last one,” Meg says.

Crowley’s eyebrows rise, bewildered and almost offended. “Who the hell closes a tour in _Kansas_?”

“ _Shit_ , ask Chuck. How should I know? I sing. I don’t plan the tours,” Michael grumbles, getting up from his chair and running a hand through his hair. It’s not his fault Chuck is a dumbass with the tour arrangement. He’d have loved to close the tour at Bills Stadium in New York. An audience of just under 72,000—talk about going out with a bang. Michael’s giddy just at the look of that tremendous number.

But no, they had to close in God damn Kansas. In a 5,000 capacity venue like Hartman Arena. _Jesus Christ._

“Hello, Michael!”

Michael winces—Bela has arrived, dressed in the latest Benetton suit. Bela Talbot is a well-known actress that Michael met at an awards show a year prior. She’d asked him out for a drink and Michael agreed out of panic. He didn’t want to date her, but he was tired of interviewers asking him if he was queer, even if the answer was yes.

It’s ridiculous, really; wearing eyeliner on stage shouldn’t mean he wasn’t a heterosexual. Michael Jackson does it, but it’s such a problem when Michael Novak does.

He shoves the thought out of his mind and gives Bela a practised smile. “Hey.”

Bela kisses his cheek, and Michael wishes he can get the hell off of this planet.

**November 21, 1980**

**— Wichita, Kansas —  
Black Rose**

Colorado is nothing short of energetic in the small space of Paramount Theatre. The venue can only seat about 1,870 people which is honestly an insult compared to other bigger venues they’ve played over their tours like the Hollywood Palladium or Freeman Coliseum in San Antonio. Still, Michael takes what he can get. 1,870 people are better than no people, and they proved it with their enthusiasm during the show.

The band and Bela decide to celebrate that their tour is almost over by going to a club in Wichita, Black Rose, and get wasted. Maybe Crowley will score them some blow.

Black Rose isn’t that big a club, which means by the time they get there at 2 in the morning straight off their tour bus, it’s bustling with movement and sweat, bodies reeking of alcohol and ecstasy. Bela clings to Michael’s arm so as to not get lost in the crowd, and she shouts above the noise, “Are you excited for tomorrow’s show, babe?”

Michael gives her a smile—sure, he may not love her romantically, but she was still a dear friend. “I am.”

Crowley rolls his eyes, and Michael calls out to the bartender to open up a tab under his name. He tells the women that all their drinks are on him tonight, then he excuses himself to the bathroom. Of course, Crowley follows.

They’ve gotten good at reading each other. Michael’s not sure he’s comfortable with that.

Bit by bit, Michael navigates the dancing crowd to get to the bathroom. _Ladies Night_ by Kool & The Gang plays loudly on the speakers, the vibrations able to be felt through the soles of his shoes, but even the sensation didn’t alleviate a disagreement he knew was going to happen once they reach the privacy of the bathroom.

He pushes open the door, looking around it to make sure it’s empty—it is. A few seconds later, Crowley comes in and locks the door of the bathroom behind them, asking, “What’s wrong?”

Michael turns around, and his hands feel cold. “I’ve been thinking.”

“Can’t be anything good.”

“Yeah,” Michael says, folding his arms—he remembers reading in some tabloid that it’s body language that makes him seem closed off. He doesn’t mean to be cold, but the situation isn’t warm either, and the thin light of the bathroom paints a sickening colour on their faces that fills him with dread. “I think we should stop.”

Crowley freezes. “Why?”

He wrings his hands together, watching the skin at his knuckles fade to a cowardly white. “Because… aren’t you sick of it? All the hiding, all the secrets. I’m tired of—I’m _exhausted_ , actually. I’m done, I’m not hiding anymore.”

“Then don’t,” Crowley says, and it sounds so simple when he puts it like that. _Then don’t_ , like he can walk out of that bathroom and kiss Crowley stupid, make whatever point he wanted to make. Tell the whole world that he is unafraid of what they have to hurl his way.

Michael can’t help the bitter laugh that erupts from him. “It’s not that easy.”

Crowley’s eyes track Michael’s movement, the way the corner of his mouth rises with cynicism. “Why not? I do it.”

Turning sharply to Crowley, Michael says, “Because you and I are not the same!”

The other man’s eyes narrow, clearly put off by the remark, and Crowley questions with the beginnings of offence, “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

Michael sighs, not wanting to have to deal with a conversation like this. When they’d agreed to their “arrangement”, it had been so uncomplicated. He’d assumed getting out of that arrangement would be just as direct, but apparently not. “It means that I’m not you. I’ve never been like you, I actually care what people think about me.”

Crowley’s glare softens at that, but his tone is still a little biting as he says, “This again, you and your incessant need to be seen as some perfect, good son. Michael, if you would just give up the bravado—if you would just be true to yourself… You know, you’d never have to be perfect around me, but you want to walk out.”

Michael’s stare pulls up from the dirty bathroom tiles to Crowley’s face. “Don’t put that on me. That’s not fair.”

“Not fair?” Crowley echoes incredulously, his eyebrows rising to his hairline. “You’re the one who just wants to fuck and leave.”

“Isn’t that exactly what we both signed up for?” Michael questions, confused and exasperated, and barely able to breath in this small space. “We said it was just sex.”

Crowley laughs, the sound a sharp burst from him that makes Michael wince, and he asks, “Jesus, how have I never realised that you have always been so oblivious?”

Red hot frustration flares deep within Michael’s chest and he exhales tightly. “ _What?_ ”

Crowley visibly reconsiders his next words, as if trying to predict how Michael will take them. Deciding it’s worth the risk, he declares, “I am in love with you, for fuck’s sake.”

Time keeps moving. Michael feels himself speed up, though he is still grounded in the same spot he’d been in the whole time. _I am in love with you_ —no, Michael can’t do this, because the bass from the music is reverberating in the walls, and they are closing in around him, and he suddenly can’t breathe.

He forces the words out of his throat, and they are said with ugly rejection. “You’re lying, you just don’t want me to call this off.”

Crowley throws his hands up, taking a step closer. Michael takes one step back. “Why the hell would I lie about that? If I didn’t want you to call this off, I’d just tell you.”

His hands catch onto the edge of the basin. “Then why are you telling me this?”

“Because it’s true!”

Michael slams a hand down on the basin—the sound echoes in the marble. “No, it’s not!”

Crowley moves closer and he’s now next to Michael. He can hear both of their breaths—Crowley’s are deep, and Michael’s are harsh. When Crowley starts talking, it’s exhausting. “Fucking hell, Michael. Have you ever thought that maybe you’re the one making things hard for yourself? You complain—You always write songs about people never loving you but the moment someone does, you shut down. What, do you genuinely think you don’t deserve to be loved or is this some mental game you play on people who love you? Maybe that’s what you’re tired of, not the hiding.”

Michael drags in a breath, trying to recollect his temper. “Crowley, I’m not playing games. It’s just not as easy for me as it is for you.”

“Yes, because you think nobody fucking loves you,” Crowley says, irony filling him like lead poisoning. “Well, there’s a pretty young Hollywood Brit sitting at the bar who can prove you wrong. There’s me. There are the fans that will be screaming for you at tomorrow’s show.”

Michael trails off uselessly, “It’s not…” Unable to find the right words to properly articulate what’s in his mind, he turns back to the mirror, staring at himself past fingerprint smudges, dried water stains and one lipstick imprint, bold crimson. He looks terrible.

Crowley says, his voice sounding like the audible embodiment of burying someone alive, “You’re just scared at the idea of somebody loving you because then it means you have to show up.”

Maybe Crowley did bury him alive with those words, but Michael has never been the kind to stay under the ground without a fight. At least, not this fight.

He turns to him, and there is a fire in his veins. “What the fuck does that mean?”

Crowley doesn’t back down. “It means that you are a selfish bastard and that you break hearts to feed your ego. You just love the attention. When people love you, you leave, you always do. I know you surely won’t be putting a ring on Bela anytime soon. She will be another in a long line of hearts you demolish.”

Michael shifts, his face inches away from Crowley as he stares him down. “I don’t leave. I don’t ‘break hearts to feed my ego’. Don’t accuse me of shit I don’t do.”

Crowley’s mouth lifts in a sarcastic smile. “Oh, but you do.”

“Crowley—”

“You break my heart every day, Michael, and yet I’m still here. I truly wonder why,” Crowley says.

Michael finally puts some distance between them. “Don’t do this. At least not now.”

“Why not now?”

“Because we’re in a fucking disgusting bathroom of a nightclub at 2 in the morning!” Michael snaps. “And you know nothing good happens at 2 AM.”

His voice dropping to a private tone, Crowley says, “Then let this be the first.”

Michael presses his lips together, and he can’t look at Crowley. “Crowley, I don't love you.”

Crowley nods once, accepting, and says, “Fine.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Fine?”

“I don’t need you to love me back.” Crowley shrugs carelessly. “I know you don’t feel the same. I never asked you to and I don’t need you to. I’m perfectly fine with things as is.”

Michael can’t figure out what’s going on in Crowley’s mind, but it’s 2 in the morning and he’s tired and just wants to go home. “Are you playing the long game or something?”

"Have you ever known me to be the type?”

Michael ponders it. “No.”

“Exactly,” Crowley says, gesturing in a way that says ‘that’s my point’. “I’m just making the most of a bad situation.”

Michael’s gaze follows Crowley’s face as he glances at himself in the mirror. “It’s only more reason not to keep going.”

Crowley smirks, and he regards Michael with suggestiveness. “You really don’t have to be considerate.” He steps closer and pulls Michael in by his tie, kissing him roughly.

By instinct, Michael returns it, pressing Crowley up against the bathroom stall door to kiss him before he realises what’s happening. He pulls away, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand while Crowley grins loosely.

“Seriously,” Michael mutters. “It’s over.”

He turns to the basin and runs the tap, splashing his face with water and looking at his reflection once more. Behind him, Crowley disappears behind the stall door. Water trickles down Michael’s face, and his tie is crumpled where Crowley grabbed him.

He leaves the bathroom before Crowley can come back out.

Back on the dance floor, the song isn’t _Ladies Night_ anymore but instead _Victoria_ by The Kinks. Michael likes the band and the song, so at least it’s a bit of a pick-me-up after the dreadful conversation.

He doesn’t understand Crowley at all and probably never will, this much Michael knows. He shifts uncomfortably in his leather jacket, trying to spot any of the women. No luck, though a server carrying a tray of drinks walks past him. Michael silently takes one of the glasses off the tray, lifting it to his lips to taste the alcohol.

It’s good.

“ _From the rich to the poor_ ,” Ray Davies’ voice pours from the speakers. “ _Victoria loved them all._ ”

Michael stares down at the orange alcohol in his glass, feeling what little he drank burning as it goes down his throat. The overly saturated lights gleam in the drink, reflecting onto his face. Faintly, it reminds him of the stained glass in a church. The crucifix necklace rests heavily against his chest.

Sighing, Michael looks back up and squints into the crowd. No sight of Bela, Meg, Lilith or even Crowley. Not even their security team was within view—Chuck will probably fire them tomorrow morning.

He searches face after face in the mass of moving bodies, and his eyes force his gaze back to one particular person.

Right as the chorus hits, there, in the middle of the dance floor, sweaty and smiling and achingly stunning, a boy with hair of gold and eyes of diamonds.

Time stops. Michael slows.

God, he is _beautiful_.

He grins at who Michael assumes is his friend, and lip-syncs—maybe he’s singing? It’s impossible to tell with all the noise—but his lips are moving and his eyes are pure ecstasy. He sways with the music, taking the hand of the redhead girl with him to spin her around. She almost bumps into someone holding a shot glass and his eyes widen, mouth forming a perfect ‘O’ shape. He laughs—Michael cannot hear it, but he feels it.

Michael’s brain throws a new lyric at him: _It’s two in the morning and I’ve found peace in the sun._

He’ll write it down later. Right now, his chest is too loud. The music is too loud, actually, and the glass is too cold. The alcohol in him burns, and that boy is so beautiful, and Michael can’t breathe.

He forces his stare away, looking down at his drink. After the argument with Crowley, Michael has become overly self-aware in regards to who he really is, and he knows he should just call it a night and leave Black Rose if he knows what’s good for him, but _fuck_ , if that boy isn’t damn beautiful.

His legs make the decision for him—he starts trying to get to the exit, but there is a remix of _Come And Get Your Love_ playing that has everyone dancing, pushing him in the wrong direction. He tries to go against it, reach the door, because a boy who likes boys is a dead one—

Michael sees diamond eyes and golden hair, and all is forgotten.

He smiles in a way that clenches in Michael’s chest and asks above the music, “Do you dance?”

“No,” Michael answers. His eyes actually have a bit of emerald, if Michael looked close enough.

“Why not?”

“I’m not the type.”

He smiles, and it’s the kind that is sweet and priceless. “Well, maybe I can change that.”

 _Heaven Must Have Sent You_ starts to reverberate through the club, Bonnie Pointer singing, “ _Then you came into my lonely days with your tender love and sweet ways._ ” The guy grins, dancing in time with the beat, and now that he’s so close, Michael knows that he was only lip-syncing to the music.

“ _Now, I don't know where you come from, baby. Don’t know where you been now, baby,_ ” the man mouths along, dancing so closely to Michael that if he held his own breath, he might feel his. “ _Heaven must have sent you into my arms._ ”

He tugs on Michael’s jacket just slightly, yet Michael felt the full gravity of the movement. He grins, continuing to lip sync as he steps back to let the music control his body. “ _Heaven must have sent you, baby, into my life._ ”

Michael, impulsively, decides that it’s a damn club at 2 in the morning, and clubs are where the hated go to find some repose, so if he can’t do whatever he wants here then he will never get to.

So he dances with the boy because nobody is going to stop him.

“ _Thank you for holding me close._ ”

The song slowly pulls to a close and Michael’s about to ask him for his name, but then Lilith chooses that moment to show up. She grabs his arm in the crowd, shouting, “Hey! We’re leaving! Come on!”

 _Fuck, not now_ , Michael thinks. The next song blasts on the speakers, loud and rowdy, and Michael’s not confident that the man will be able to hear him. Michael suddenly remembers the flyer he’d shoved into his jacket earlier that day and clumsily reaches for it, holding it out to the man before Lilith finally pulls him away.

Michael shouts, hoping he can hear him, “I sing for them! It’s tomorrow!”

Then he’s shoved through the door by Lilith and Michael loses sight of those diamond eyes.

Outside, Crowley already has a lit cigarette between his lips, and he turns away when he makes eye contact with Michael. Meg rolls her eyes, muttering, “Finally. Alright, our security left so Chuck wants us back at our hotel.”

“If they were gone, we could have stayed at least a minute longer,” Michael grumbles, but he doesn’t argue any further. If anything is meant to happen, the boy will show at the gig tomorrow. It’s all up to chance now.

**November 22, 1980**

**— Lawrence, Kansas —  
The Roadhouse**

“ _Really, Lois, we’ve got to stop meeting this way!_ ”

Adam smiles imperceptibly as he clears the trays off the table, listening to his brother read out his lines from the script of his new movie, _Superman II_. Dean works as an actor—he’s a pretty famous one, which means that with all the different sets around the country he has to go to film various films, Dean is rarely in Kansas. Now that they’re only in pre-production, Dean could fly back to Kansas from New York and spend some time with his younger brothers.

In a higher-pitched voice, Dean reads out from a different page, “ _Be more aggressive, Clark! Trust your instinct! When you see your opportunity, grab it! I do._ ”

“Are you sure you’re allowed to read that in front of me?” Adam asks, adjusting the collar of his uniform. The Roadhouse employees all wore the same pastel blue uniform with white circular plastic name tags, tacked above the breast pocket by a safety pin, and black slacks. When Ellen is in a bad mood, she makes them wear the ugly hat that Adam’s 86% sure has been eaten by moths.

“I don’t really care. It’s _Superman_ , Adam. Everyone knows Superman,” Dean says, putting the script down and looking up at his little brother. “Someone’s got a spring in their step.”

He does, actually. Yesterday, Adam had gone to Wichita to celebrate Charlie being hired for Dean’s movie as an editor. There, they had gone to the nightclub Black Rose to get tipsy.

There, Adam danced with the most dashing man he’s ever seen. With alcohol in his system, he’d had the courage to tell him he could change his mind about dancing, and the most exciting thing was that this black-haired beauty did indeed end up dancing with him. Adam saw those verdant eyes in his dreams that night. He’d almost dropped the glass he was cleaning when _Heaven Must Have Sent You_ played on the jukebox at work this morning.

The man left before Adam could ask his name, though he’d pressed a red-and-yellow-coloured flyer to his chest and shouted that he sang for them and that they’re performing tomorrow, which was now tonight.

Adam danced to a love song with a handsome rock star last night. Holy shit.

He tries and fails to bite back a grin. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do,” Dean says, amused. Folding his arms on the table, he asks, “What’s going on?”

Adam rolls his eyes but reaches into his breast pocket to pull out the folded flyer for the _Give Up The Ghost_ show tomorrow night. He passes it to Dean, requesting, “Will you please go with me?”

Dean glances only at the date before he frowns. “I don’t know, man. I gotta memorise the script. Why don’t you ask Sammy?”

Adam gives him a pointed look. “You know _Sammy_ has wedding planning.”

Flapping a hand once in a dismissive way, Dean says, “Jess won’t kill him for one night. He can let one night go.”

Wryly, Adam says, “So could you.”

Dean grins. “Touché.” He picks up the flyer again and really looks over the red and yellow duotone print. His finger grazes over the band’s logo and he says, “I’ve heard of this band. Didn’t know you liked them.”

Adam shakes his head, explaining, “I danced with the singer at that club I went to yesterday.”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “ _Danced_? What, did you go to the queer one with that pink drink?”

Adam stares at him. “No, Black Rose.”

Dean smiles, unconvinced. “Sure.” He flips the flyer back around so it’s now facing Adam and points at the lead singer—in the photo, his black hair is pushed off his face by a hand, his other hand gripping the microphone. His jawline is sharp and the stage light casts a stark shadow down his neck, and he gives a look to the camera that renders Adam unable to stare at the flyer for longer than a minute. “You met him?”

“Yep.”

Dean pulls an impressed face, looking at the photo again. “Not bad, brother. You’ve got taste.”

His cheeks heat up, and Adam’s not sure if it’s from jealousy or embarrassment. “Dean, please. You’ve got what’s-his-name.”

“His name’s _Aaron_ , man. And that was over when the director called cut,” Dean clarifies. “And whatever. This Michael guy’s too young for me, I think. Definitely your ballpark, though.”

Horrified, Adam says, “ _Dean_.”

Dean laughs and Adam turns away, busying his hands with wiping a dirty stool at the counter, and says, “What? If he danced with you, he probably likes you too.”

“You forget that we’re in the 1980s.”

“A dance is still a dance no matter what decade it is,” Dean says. “And so what? I sure as shit don’t care who _I_ dance with, and I’m not getting crucified, am I?”

Adam leans against the booth’s table, giving Dean one of his flatter looks. “Because you’re _famous_. Like Freddie Mercury, Bowie, Elton John. That BBC guy, Stephen Fry or something. Of course, nobody’s trying to crucify you, you’re too famous to touch. Dean Winchester, the Academy Award winner, sleeps with a male co-star. People will make a quick buck over the headline but nobody’s gonna make a scene about it.”

Dean rolls his eyes, scoffing as he folds the flyer back in half along the dented lines from when Adam folded it. “My current director does. Roman keeps telling me if I gotta do it, at least keep it in my bedroom.” Quoting Rhett Butler from Gone with the Wind, Dean recites, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.”

Adam sighs, staring forlornly at the crack in the ceiling. “I wish I could be more like you.”

Encouragingly, Dean says, “You don’t have to be more like me. You just have to be yourself. If you like this guy, go to his show tomorrow. Look, you know what? I’ll go with you.”

Discouraged by his own words, Adam starts to retract the invitation. “It seems like a bad idea now, maybe I shouldn’t.” He hadn’t thought this through—what was he even going to say to the man at the show? That he assumed he was queer because they danced at a place where people dance? Did he even want to see him or was he just trying to get more people to listen to his band? What were the chances that the singer will even see him in the first place? It’s an arena full of screaming fans and strobe lights. He and his band will probably be dancing and moving across the stage. Adam will only be a blur in the crowd.

As if answering some of Adam’s prayers, Dean says, “Oh, come on. I’ll get us backstage passes so you can talk to him. You two could go out after the concert, get a drink. You know, Lee’s bar is open late. He’ll give you drinks on the house, just tell him you’re my brother.”

Adam shakes his head, walking back behind the counter to get a rag to wipe the tables down. “No, I wouldn’t know what to do. He’ll be busy—the flyer says they’re touring, he’s not gonna be in Kansas for long.”

“Maybe he’ll ask you on the tour with him,” Dean suggests, smiling cheekily.

“This is real life, not one of your romance movies,” Adam says, grabbing the rag off its hook.

“You never know. He kinda looks like the romantic type,” Dean comments off-handedly. “Maybe he’ll take you on a drive or something.”

Adam laughs sarcastically.

Dean stands to follow Adam as he makes his way around the diner, talking as he walks. “Adam, it doesn’t matter what people think, okay? They’re some close-minded sons of bitches. They’re not important. If you like him, go get him. It’s that easy. If I cared what people thought about me, I wouldn’t have my life right now.” He tucks the flyer into his pants pocket, saying, “I’ll get us the passes.”

Adam pauses in wiping down the surface of the table, asking, “What do I say when I see him?”

“In my experience, your name and your number,” Dean says in good nature. “Seriously, though. This one time in high school, I forgot to tell this girl my name and we were both pretty out of it so face details were questionable. Big mistake, man. This other guy ended up pretending to be me and dated her instead.”

“No way. That’s hilarious.”

“It’s _embarrassing_ ,” Dean complains. “But you see my point. I’ll get us tickets by tonight and I’ll have someone drive us to Wichita. You’ll be in time for the show.”

Adam sighs. “Thanks, Dean. Hey, maybe you’ll meet someone there.”

“I doubt it,” Dean chuckles. “Plus, Roman wants me to stay single the whole time Superman’s gonna be in production. He thinks if the press believes Bela and I are a couple like Clark and Lois, it’ll get more people to the cinemas.”

Adam frowns in thought, looking up at the ceiling. “Doesn’t Bela Talbot have a lover?”

“That’s her agent’s problem, not mine,” Dean shrugs. “I’ll see you tonight, little brother. Dress up a bit, yeah? Get Charlie to choose something for you.”

**— Wichita, Kansas —  
Hartman Arena**

Dean manages to bargain for two backstage passes with Give Up The Ghost’s agent through Dick Roman, getting the passes in exchange for agreeing to star in a future music video for the band. The venue in Wichita that they’re playing at, Hartman Arena, is already overflowing with fans. There are people wearing the band’s shirts, holding cassettes and vinyl for the band to sign later.

Adam feels a bit out of place, not donning a single piece of merchandise. However, neither is Dean, who’s wearing sunglasses in a half-hearted attempt to stay hidden. It helps that he’s not the only one not dressed for the show.

“Mr Winchester?” A blonde woman asks, coming up to them. Adam snickers—the disguise isn’t working at all—and Dean gives up, taking off the glasses and flashing the woman an expectant smile. She continues, “I’m Becky, Chuck Shurley’s assistant. I was informed by Chuck that you and a plus one have backstage passes. I was sent to bring you backstage.”

“Thanks,” Dean smiles politely, and Adam and he follow her as she expertly navigates the bustling crowd trying to enter the venue and get to their places. She manages to get them there and even outside the door to backstage, Adam can hear the muted noise of soundcheck.

Becky warns, “Sometimes, the band gets a bit riled up before a show, so try not to step on any toes in there if they’re around. Some of them like to disappear for a bit. And be careful of wires and equipment. Have fun.”

Backstage, it’s expectedly hectic with the show starting in barely ten minutes. Crew members try to get everything in order and one ogle in amazement at Dean as he walks past.

Dean asks, “You see your guy anywhere?”

“You’re taller than me,” Adam points out. “If anyone can see him in this mess, it’s you.”

Dean squints, even tip-toeing for good measure. “I don’t see him.”

Adam sighs, pressing his lips together. It was a long shot anyway, even Becky said some of the band members wouldn’t show until the concert starts. The guy probably won’t appear until—

“You came.”

Adam and Dean turn around and Adam has to remind himself to breathe when he sees that charming face again. Obviously dressed differently from last night, the guy is wearing a black vest with an extreme dropped armhole, the band’s logo on display on his chest. His hair is styled back, a stray strand hanging over his forehead in a way that reminds Adam a bit of Superman.

He wears a smile that Adam recognises in strobe lights.

“Yeah,” Adam says, and then he adds hurriedly, “I’m Adam Milligan.”

“Michael Novak,” he introduces. He turns his attention to Dean, realising that they aren’t the only people there, and says, “You’re Dean Winchester, right? I watched one of your movies last month.”

Dean asks, pleasantly surprised, “Which one?”

“The one with Robinson.”

“Oh, she’s great,” Dean grins, nodding as he recalls the movie with Cassie. He looks back at Adam and says, “Anyway, Adam was excited to come to the show. Wouldn’t stop talking about it all afternoon.”

Michael grins, and then starts talking logistics. “Things can get unbearably loud back here when the show starts, so take care of your ears. Did Becky give you earplugs?”

“No,” Adam says hesitantly. He hopes that doesn’t mean Becky will get in trouble.

Michael’s eyes regard the ceiling in a moment of exasperation. “She always forgets to hand them out to backstage visitors.” He reaches into his pocket, pulling out a pair. “You can have mine. Dean, I’ll get Becky to pass you some.”

“Wait, you need those for the show,” Adam begins to reject.

“It’s alright. These are my extra pair,” Michael says. “Here, I’ll get it for you.”

Michael carefully fits the earplugs into Adam’s ears and Adam tries to ignore the shit-eating grin on Dean’s face right now. It’s easy to pretend Dean isn’t there when his mind has a thousand thoughts in a hurricane.

“Alright. Done,” Michael says, his hand falling away. “Good?”

Adam raises a thumbs up.

Michael shouts across backstage to Becky to bring Dean some earplugs and he puts his own in, saying, “I need to get on stage soon. I hope you enjoy the show.”

He’s about to leave when Adam’s impulsiveness gets the best of him and he calls out, “Do you want to get a drink after?”

The corner of Michael’s mouth lifts in a half-smile and he returns, saying, “I’d like that.” After a second of thought, he adds, “My mind is always a mess after a show. Up there with all the lights, the noise, the movement, you come off the stage feeling out of it. I might forget to come to look for you, but—wait, I have an idea.”

Michael reaches for the necklace around his neck, pulling it over his head and holding it out to Adam—it’s a golden crucifix. He explains, “I never go anywhere without this. I’ll come to collect it from you after the show so I’ll remember to get a drink with you. Take care of this for me, please.”

“Alright,” Adam promises, hanging it over his own neck. “Break a leg.”

“I actually broke my leg out there once,” Michael says light-heartedly, and then he’s gone for real.

Alone now, Dean mutters, “Not into you, my ass.”

Adam punches his arm.

Watching Michael on stage is nothing short of hypnotising. Adam has never been backstage of a concert before, much less for a band that’s one of the biggest names in the USA.

It’s like Michael completely immerses himself on a different plane where it is just him and the music. He dances around the stage—so he _does_ , in fact, dance—jumping and letting the guitar and drums guide his movement. His hair goes from styled to messy, clinging to his forehead with sweat, but no matter how tired he looks, Michael keeps his energy up. At some point, he pulls off his vest, shirtless, and yeah, the crowd goes crazy for that, but Adam can tell Michael only does it to feel a bit less restricted. Plus, with all the hot lights pointing at him, maybe it makes him feel a little less warm. Michael doesn’t look back at him the whole show but it’s only because he’s lost in the performance of it all.

Adam hopes this isn’t the last time he gets to be backstage to a Give Up The Ghost concert. He swears he can watch Michael forever.

“Hey! Who are you?”

Dean and Adam turn to the muted call, seeing a man who looks a bit similar to Michael with his dark hair and sharp cheekbones. However, he has blue eyes instead, and Dean smiles imperceptibly as he answers, “Dean Winchester, this is my brother Adam Milligan. We’re friends of Michael’s.” Adam’s not sure if they can be considered Michael’s friends yet, but he doesn’t correct him.

“I know who you are, I meant Adam,” the man clarifies. “I’m Castiel, Michael’s brother.”

“What, you do music too?” Dean asks, waving a hand to gesture to the stage.

“No, I’m a writer. I happened to be in town so I came to his show,” Castiel explains. “Backstage passes to their concerts aren’t easy to get. How did you manage?”

Dean grins obnoxiously. “Struck a deal with their manager. I gotta do a music video for them but worth it.”

Castiel smiles but adds no comment about the deal. He asks instead, “How did you hear about the show?”

Adam takes the flyer out of his jacket pocket, passing it to Castiel. “Michael gave me this yesterday so I came to look for him—the band.” Castiel takes the flyer, face withering in distaste.

He mutters, “I told Chuck that the red and yellow one is ugly. The black and white one is better.” Castiel looks around and spots a bag with flyers in them so he grabs one from there, giving Adam a new flyer. “Here, have this one too.” Castiel didn’t lie—the black and white one _is_ better. Michael’s face is clearer in this print.

Dean brings the conversation back to Castiel, obviously curious about him. “Writer, huh? What are you doing here?”

“Book tour,” Castiel says. Dean opens his mouth as if to ask what the book is about and it’s like Castiel reads his mind, elaborating, “My book is about a man whose body is going back in time while the world goes forwards. It’s supposed to be a mind fuck.”

“Hey, can I come to your book signing tomorrow? Sounds like a good book,” Dean asks, and Adam raises both eyebrows at him in incredulity.

Castiel smiles, charmed. “Of course. If you follow me somewhere quieter, I’ll give you the details?”

And then Adam is alone, watching the band. The bassist, Lilith, says that the song they’re playing is called _Better Spent In Love_ , and then they launch into the instrumentals. They’re doing a slower song now, the lights going from fervent strobes to tranquil red and blue lights that paint Michael’s face like stained glass in a cathedral. For the song, Michael sits on a tall barstool instead of dancing.

“ _I’ve never had a year better spent in love_ ,” Michael sings. “ _Heaven eyes, angel highs, find some peace of mind._ ”

Adam’s cheeks hurt, then he realises he’s smiling.

“That was amazing!” Adam says as soon as the band begins to come backstage at the end of their set.

“Thanks, kid,” Meg says, side-stepping to get to her guitar carrier to pack it up. Michael is once again not in sight and the drummer, Crowley, appears, staring at the crucifix necklace around his neck.

Adam pauses. “Can I help you?”

“That’s Michael’s,” Crowley notes, tone unreadable and gaze hard. “He never lets anyone touch it.”

“Oh,” Adam says, not exactly knowing what to say to that. “Well, he passed it to me for safekeeping. We’re supposed to get drinks, he didn’t want to forget, so.”

“I see,” Crowley mutters, still staring at the necklace. He scans backstage for a few seconds and says, “Give him a minute. I believe he’s meeting some fans at the exit. He’ll come back.” Crowley disappears into the mess of the backstage then, and Adam does wait.

Just as Crowley said, Michael shows up, smiling. Adam takes the necklace off and Michael says, “Thank you for watching it for me." He does a double-take on Adam and gestures at his ears—Adam remembers he's still got the earplugs on. No wonder he couldn't read Crowley's tone. With how loud the show was, Adam almost thought it was normal. He keeps the earplugs in his jacket pocket and Michael smiles, asking, "Well, then, shall we get going?”

Michael had been more than willing to go wherever Adam has plans for them, even getting on the bus back to Lawrence instead of staying in Wichita. Adam had worried that it’ll make things difficult for him to go to his next tour location but Michael tells him that their tour is now over and he can do whatever he wants to do now.

They get off at the bus stop in Lawrence and start walking. Michael asks, “What did you have in mind?”

“Well, there’s a bar—Swayze’s, Dean’s friend owns it,” Adam says. “It’s open till 3.”

The corner of Michael’s lifts in a half-smile, amused and excited, and he says, “If I’m reading you right, I feel a ‘but’ coming.”

“You read me just fine,” Adam echoes Michael’s words from earlier, sharing his grin. “But I know a place that’s open for as long as we want it to be.”

“Count me intrigued. Lead the way,” Michael says, holding out a hand in front of him so Adam can take the lead. Adam stays by his side instead, directing them both through the pavements with only dim streetlamp light to illuminate the darkness.

They reach the back door of what Michael assumes is a diner, and Adam takes keys out from his pocket. His fingers nimbly go through the different keys, quickly locating the right one and slotting it into the rusty doorknob. Unlocked, Adam turns the knob and opens the door, flicking a switch on the wall to turn on the lights.

“Welcome to the Roadhouse,” Adam says grandly, opening his arms up to the empty diner like he’s presenting a breathtaking view. “It’s not the 5-star establishments you’re probably used to, but she’s a beauty. I work here in the evenings and usually close up, that’s how I have the keys.”

The Roadhouse is a pretty spacious diner with red leather booth seats and cream coloured chairs that line the grey counter. The tiles are spotless, lending to the imagery of a boss who takes pride in their diner. The light, while thin, is still easy on the eyes. There’s a jukebox at the corner and a chalkboard menu rests behind the counter.

“Am I allowed here?” Michael asks, dragging his gaze around the diner and finding a new detail about it every second—the stage at the side, for one.

“Yeah, relax. Ellen loves me.” Adam dismisses.

Michael casts a smile his way. “I don’t blame her. There’s something about you.”

“Maybe I have superpowers to make people fall in love with me,” Adam jokes, moving behind the counter. “Anyway, what do you want from the menu? I’ll make it for you, on the house.”

Michael begins to turn him down. “I can’t ask you to make food for me for free.”

Adam raises an eyebrow, cleaning out a glass so he can make Michael a drink. “You let me come to your show for free. Call it returning the favour.”

Michael can’t argue with that, though he points out, “Technically, your brother got the free show.” At Adam’s flat look, he smiles and says, “But I’ll have… chocolate cake and whatever drink you think is good.”

Casting him a knowing look, Adam jerks his head to the backroom and says, “We have beer in storage.”

“Oh, thank God.”

A grin splits across Adam’s face.

Michael points to the stage, asking, “What’s that for?”

“Oh, Ellen likes to host local musicians, so she lets bands or singers rent the stage for a couple of hours and play for the customers,” Adam explains, reaching into the storage room to blindly grab each of them a bottle of beer. “They can’t just be random people, though. Has to be an actual band or artist that’s already done gigs before. She wants to support local musicians but she also doesn’t want some guy who can’t sing to disturb her customers, you know?”

“I get that. We’re strict with choosing opening acts too,” Michael relates. “Do you perform?”

Adam slides one bottle over the counter to Michael and answers, embarrassed, “Sometimes.”

“Sometimes?”

“Friday nights,” Adam elaborates. “You'd think Friday would be a good day for diners but it’s not for ours, for some reason. Since there’s practically nobody around on Friday evenings, Ellen gives me the stage to fool around.”

Michael uses his teeth to pop the cap off of the bottle and Adam watches the act—then he remembers it’s rude to stare and he looks away. Michael takes the bottle cap out from between his teeth and asks, “Are you good?”

“Ellen and Jo think so.”

Michael raises a confused eyebrow. “Then why not let you perform on days when people are actually here?”

“There’s a difference between being good at a hobby and having it as a profession,” Adam says, shrugging. “It’s fine.”

Michael nods, thinking, and then he requests, “Can you sing something for me?”

Adam’s eyes widen and he laughs nervously, asking, “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m serious. I want to hear you sing,” Michael insists genuinely. Adam chews his lower lip in consideration before he relents, reaching under the counter to get the guitar. Michael sits the wrong way on the chair, folding his arms over the back of it and resting his chin on them to make himself comfortable.

Adam gets himself situated on the barstool on the stage, not bothering with setting up the microphone stand he normally uses. With an audience of one, the intimacy of one voice, one guitar and no barrier seem appropriate. “Any song you want to hear?”

“What do you know?”

“Well, I’ve been watching _Grease_ a lot lately,” Adam jokes, and Michael chuckles. “So I think I’ll do a song from there.”

He clears his throat and gets his fingers over the right frets before he starts strumming, reaching deep into his memory for the time he wrote down all the chords to the song. It sounds mostly correct, so hopefully, Michael won’t fault him on that. He starts into the first verse, “ _Guess mine is not the first heart broken, my eyes are not the first to cry._ ”

Michael listens with complete attention, watching with a smile that Adam almost misses.

“ _You know, I’m just a fool who’s willing to sit around and wait for you_ ,” Adam continues, Michael’s attention on him giving him enough confidence to own the song. “ _But baby, can’t you see there’s nothing else for me to do? I’m hopelessly devoted to you._ ”

Adam tilts the guitar to use the headstock to point at Michael, nodding once with a grin. Michael looks like he wants to reject the offer but he sings the chorus anyway, “ _But now there’s nowhere to hide. Since you pushed my love aside, I’m out of my head, hopelessly devoted to you… Hopelessly devoted to you._ ”

Adam laughs, delighted that he did sing, and they harmonise the rest of the song—Adam takes the highs, Michael takes the lows, and they meet right in the middle.

There’s no need for dancing, not here. Not with them. Here, it is exactly what it is.


	2. Give Up The Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here's a playlist for all the real songs that have been used in the fic! this will be updated every chapter: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1CBR8aiKXQY8WhRNuysBS6?si=uL5OWhrgQf2lbCZAtW8LFg

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's a character that shows up later called Dearil Reaper -- he's supposed to be Death but obviously, that'd be a weird name to give someone. A less strange name I could find was "Dearil" which means "call of death". Just to clarify that it's not an original character.
> 
> CW //  
> Adam and Michael drink wine in one part  
> Mention of getting high/depressing thoughts in the Las Vegas section

_There’s a monster at the end of the book.  
Take a good look, it might be you.  
_**Fantastic Bastards  
**Written by Crowley MacLeod, about Michael

**September 29, 1949**

**— Belleville, Illinois —  
** **The Roman Catholic Diocese of Belleville**

The church, in the depth of late nights, becomes very quiet. Jimmy can hear almost every little sound in the cathedral when it gets dark out, mostly because there is almost nobody else in the building. Though he had two sons and a wife at home, he liked to spend some extra alone time in the diocese before he goes back. There is a quiet peace to it and if he strained his ears enough, it’s almost as if he can hear angels whispering answers to his prayers.

Right now, though, he’s not praying. He’s just listening—listening to the light rain pattering on the stained glass, watching filtered moonlight cast shades of the rainbow onto the concrete floors. There are only candles lit at night and the place is stunning. He hears the wind, the way it pushes leaves up to the windows with quiet rustling, and he hears a baby’s cries tear through the night.

_A baby’s cries?_

Jimmy snaps out of his trance and looks around, confused. There were no babies in the church and nobody left theirs behind among the benches. It sounds muffled like it’s from the outside, so he stands and moves to the front door of the church.

He opens it and looks—there is nothing but downpour when he looks straight ahead, but there is a blanketed basket when he brings his gaze to his feet. There, on the doorstep of the diocese, is a little baby wrapped tightly in soft fabric, crying as the cold rain and wind engulf him.

“Oh, Lord,” Jimmy mumbles, astonished, and he bends to pick up the baby. In the blanket is a typewriter-printed note that reads:

> _Father Novak:_
> 
> _We’ve heard nothing but good things about your benevolence. We know that this is a lot to ask, but we had nowhere else to turn._
> 
> _We are not ready for a son. This, we realised too late._
> 
> _We hope you can find him a home that will properly care for him._
> 
> _He has no name yet._

The note is unsigned, with no way to find out who exactly left it or the baby here. Jimmy’s feet move first, bringing them inside where they’re safe from the downpour and biting air, and he unwraps the blanket slightly to get a better look at the baby.

The few strands of hair he has are ebony, and his eyes are verdant, like quiet forests that go on forever. There are droplets on his face but Jimmy is unclear if they are tears or raindrops. His thumb wipes off some of the drops from under the baby’s eyes—his face is scrunched in distress. There is a gold crucifix necklace in the blanket that’s a bit long for a baby.

“How long have you been out there?” Jimmy asks, though he obviously expected no answer. He wonders if Amelia would mind if he brings the baby home, at least for one night. “Do you want to come back with me?”

The baby coos quietly. Jimmy decides that if Amelia, Castiel or Gabriel have an issue with the child, he’ll deal with it then. Leaving the baby in the church alone overnight simply doesn’t sit quite right with him. Sure, there may be some nuns who could take care of him while he goes home but he knows his mind will not be quiet about it.

“No name, huh?” Jimmy mumbles, reading over the note again. He closes his eyes to remember what today’s date was in the newspaper he read in the morning before he left for the church. It’s the 29th of September—Michaelmas.

He looks down at the baby boy in his arms again and says experimentally, “Hey, Michael.” The baby’s eyes travel up to Jimmy’s, wide and curious, and though small, there is a smile. Jimmy mirrors it with his own grin. “Michael, it is. I’m gonna bring you home, alright? You’re gonna meet my wife and sons. My eldest, Gabriel, he’s 6 right now, and Castiel is 4, but they’re smart kids.”

He talks to Michael the whole drive home, spending the three hours telling him stories about his sons like how last year, Castiel had drawn all over the wall with crayons and Gabriel panicked, splashing water onto it in hopes that it would clean it up but it only made the crayon run. Amelia was upset but Jimmy helped the boys wash it off. Michael obviously didn’t understand a word of it, only watching Jimmy with inquisitiveness or looking out the bus window, blurred with condensation from the rain.

There’s a purity to him that Jimmy hopes will never fade.

When he and Michael reach home, Gabriel is the first one to see the baby. “Daddy, who’s that?”

Before Jimmy can respond, Amelia appears at the doorway, her face turning pale. “Jimmy, why do you have a baby with you?”

He takes the note out of his uniform, passing it to her to read as he explains, “Someone left him at the church door. I couldn’t just leave him there.”

Amelia looks up in disbelief. “He doesn’t even have a _name_?”

“Today’s Michaelmas so I thought naming him Michael would be fitting. Maybe even good luck,” Jimmy says light-heartedly, looking down fondly at the baby in his arms. “I also thought that maybe we could raise him.”

Amelia opens her mouth to protest but catches sight of both Gabriel and Castiel there, staring at the baby with a thousand unanswered questions, and she asks, “Can we talk in our room? Away from the boys?”

Alone in their room with the boys put to bed, she starts talking. “Jimmy, two kids is stressful enough. You’re away at the church for most of the day and sometimes, you come home late. You take three hours to go there and come home. I have work too, you know! Gabriel is 6 but he’s insisting that one of us teach him how to cook so Cas will have food if neither of us is home on time. Do you honestly think we can manage a third? Especially what looks like a newborn? How old is this baby?”

“He looks like he’s at least two months old,” Jimmy mumbles, looking down at Michael again.

Amelia did raise a good point—neither of their jobs earned them much and providing for two adults and two young children who weren’t old enough to earn their own money yet is taxing as is. Yet, Jimmy’s conscience didn’t allow him to just pass the baby off to someone else and forget he ever existed.

He tries, “His parents addressed their note to me in particular. They trusted me to care for Michael.”

“His name isn’t Michael. _He doesn’t have a name_ , Jimmy,” Amelia says, exasperated. “And they asked you to look for a home that will care for him, not _be_ that home.”

“I know it’ll be hard but when has anything ever been easy?” Jimmy insists. “Maybe this is a test from God.”

She raises an unimpressed eyebrow. “What can He possibly be testing us on with the baby?”

“Devotion,” Jimmy answers. “Strength. Acceptance. Humanity. Kindness. Love. Pick one.”

Amelia watches him with sharp eyes, wary of the baby with the false name and no birthday. He’d come out of nowhere—this morning, she had two sons who were arguing over who would get to have the last bowl of cereal that would leave the box empty and by nighttime, her husband brings home a third boy without a name, drenched in rain and tears.

Yet, staring at this baby, she didn’t have it in her heart to turn him away even with all her gripes about it. She knew that if she asked Jimmy to drop the child off at the orphanage that she wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about him. Frankly, she’s also certain that Jimmy wouldn’t forgive her for abandoning the boy.

She sighs, reluctant but relenting. “Fine. But he’s your responsibility.”

Jimmy’s face splits into a grin and he holds the baby out in front of him, trying out the new name, “Michael Novak.”

Michael smiles, and his little fingers curl around one of his thumbs. Jimmy will try to think of a middle name for him next time if it suits him. He quite likes the theme of basing him on the archangel.

While Amelia sorts out a sleeping place for Michael, Jimmy brings him to Gabriel and Castiel’s room to officially introduce him. “This is your new little brother,” Jimmy says. “His name will be Michael. I hope you two will do your best to make him feel like he’s part of the family.”

Castiel squints his eyes at him, a habit he had for when he was confused, and Gabriel is excited, asking question after question, all of which Jimmy didn’t have an answer to. One of them being, “When is his birthday?”

Jimmy isn’t even sure how old Michael is exactly, much less his date of birth, but he decides that the day he was found will suffice. “Today.”

“Wow! Happy birthday, Mikey,” Gabriel congratulates, reaching out to run his small hand through Michael’s black hair. “Mommy didn’t get bigger this time?” Having seen Amelia while she was carrying Castiel, of course Gabriel knew something about pregnancy. They were smart boys.

Jimmy explains patiently, “He’s not exactly ours, not biologically. I found him at the church, his parents weren’t ready. But we will be, right?” Gabriel nods eagerly. Castiel is still narrowing his eyes at Michael, tugging wordlessly at the blanket that wraps him. Jimmy continues, “One day, he’ll know about his parents. But not a word to Michael until I say so, okay?”

Castiel leans up and presses a kiss to Michael’s forehead. Jimmy can’t help but grin widely—he hopes and hopes that Michael is better off with them than another family. He’ll take up a second job if he had to if only to prove to Amelia that a third son is no trouble.

The boy with no name; Michael Saint Novak.

**November 25, 1980**

Adam brings the rag back around the surface of his dining table, collecting crumbs under the damp cloth and bunching it up to clean it in the sink. It’s been three days since he last saw Michael in the diner where they’d sung _Hopelessly Devoted to You_ from Grease together, then parted ways sometime near 5 in the morning. Michael mentioned something about staying with his other brother Gabriel, who apparently resides in Kansas too.

After the night (or morning) in the Roadhouse, Adam had gone to the music shop to buy Give Up The Ghost’s entire discography on cassette—they had an album called ' _Red Sky in Morning_ ' released in 1973 with 6 songs, another with 12 covers of existing songs that was put out in 1976, amusingly titled ‘ _We Didn’t Want To Record Originals So Fuck You_ ’—and then the self-titled record that they were on tour for that 11 songs.

Now, he goes to lie in bed to listen to one of the older records on the Walkman that his mother had gotten him for his birthday last year. Though the blue paint has worn off at the edges and the play button is scratched from excessive use, it still operates perfectly. Plus, with the sentimental value to it, Adam can never imagine replacing it even if it has long broken.

He gets to the final track on _Red Sky in Morning_ called _Lonely Heaven_ —“ _Someone said that if you are true with what you want from life, life gets kind and gives to you your wish without a price._ ” Michael’s voice stands out with the minimal instrumentals, making the melancholy in his singing that much more intrusive on Adam’s own emotions. “ _That’s not true; I wanted you and look where it’s gotten me._ ” He closes his eyes, resting the Walkman on his chest as the song continues. 

“ _I’m sorry for pretending that life up here is fine. Truth be told, it’s lonely, and I’m a little sad. So, if you can, please join me at your time._ ”

Adam wonders exactly how lonely Michael is. Judging from the emotion in the singing, Adam assumes that Michael wrote _Lonely Heaven_. His mind wanders to the thought of if he had someone in mind when he wrote the song. He notices that any songs with pronouns—there was a notable number of songs where pronouns were omitted completely—were about women. Though, it does say on the back of the cassette cases who wrote which song and Michael didn’t write any of those.

He does notice that the romantic songs Crowley wrote have male pronouns which pique his interest. It’s rare to see people so open with their sexualities who aren’t in an obscure gay bar. Well, except for celebrities like Dean, but Adam is impressed with Crowley’s pride nonetheless. He and Dean would get along well. They both like living a more exciting life, as far as Adam can tell.

Adam lives alone in a studio apartment where there are stairs leading from an alleyway up to his bedroom window. His mother lives in Minnesota, still. Adam had only moved out here because he thought he needed a change of scenery. Not everyone wanted to be stuck in the same spot forever, no matter how nice the idea sounds—if you stay in one place too long, the world is going to move on without you and he hated being left behind.

That being said, he had wanted to make the big move to one of the more “exciting” states like California or New York like Dean and Charlie but he’d settled for Kansas. He just didn’t think he was ready for such a drastic change yet. Perhaps someday, he’ll take the risk and make the move.

Michael told him in the Roadhouse that he currently lives in Los Angeles in a two-bedroom apartment at the higher end of the city. He says he tends to stay indoors most times, working on new music in the confines of his home where he felt more than he does outside.

Adam had thought about what kind of person Michael really is after they parted ways but felt that whatever impressions he has simply won’t do him any justice. He knew some parts of him but he didn’t know enough. With Michael, it didn’t do to just jump to conclusions. Maybe if Adam hadn’t spoken to him in the Roadhouse or danced with him in Black Rose; if Adam had only ever watched Michael on the stage—confident, outgoing, cocky, fiery as he sings lyrics he wrote full of melancholy, begging for love. Full of pain and twisted insides. Maybe then, Adam would think Michael could be arrogant, knowing he is loved by thousands and yet still asking for more affection; that Michael holds the façade of conceited reservation but he is a hurricane deep within that rages and keeps on raging.

And maybe he would be right to an extent but in the Roadhouse, he had realised that though Michael is a hurricane, he is the dull blue of a still lake, a cloudy sky with rumbling thunder of impending lightning that never comes. Everything rests under his skin, nothing on display that he doesn’t want to be seen, which is when Adam realised that to come to a conclusion on Michael when he has barely scratched the surface is just not doing him justice.

The cassette stops playing, the final track completed, and Adam pulls off his headphones to hear his phone ring at his bedside table. He puts the Walkman down and rolls over his sheets to pick up. “Hey, this is Adam. Who’s this?”

“It’s Michael,” comes the voice on the other end. “Hello, Adam.”

“I was just thinking about you,” Adam says, his smile forming unconsciously as he sits up to lean against the headboard.

Michael’s smile is clear in his tone. “Really? Why?”

“I was listening to one of your albums— _Red Sky In Morning_ —and thought about the lyrics you wrote,” Adam answers. “You write a lot of love songs. I thought you were single.”

Michael hesitates for a second too long. “Well, I’m… actually not.” Adam’s heart falls but he can't be surprised—with a face like that, it'd be a crime for Michael to not be snatched up. “But it’s complicated.”

 _Oh?_ Adam asks, “What do you mean complicated?”

There’s a pause like Michael wants to say something but the moment dissolves as soon as Adam notices it and he asks, “Can we please talk about something else?”

A part of Adam is a little disappointed that he won’t get clarification on what ‘complicated’ is supposed to entail; maybe they had one of those progressive relationships where they could date other people on the side, or perhaps they were posing as ‘beards’, something Dean told him about that happens quite a bit in Hollywood. Maybe it’s for publicity and he has a non-disclosure agreement, Dean mentioned that things like that happen too. Regardless of his guesses, it seems like he won’t be getting an explanation, at least not today, so Adam concedes. “Yup. Have you been working on new songs? I mean, I know you just finished an album and your tour, but I didn’t know what else is appropriate to talk about.”

“Anything but my relationship is fine,” Michael says. “And I have.”

That does take Adam’s mind off of the relationship topic and he sits up in his bed, excited, as the questions spill out of him, “Really? How much have you written? Do you have a tune yet? If you do, can I hear what you have? Or is that illegal? Well, I mean, I know it’s not illegal, but NDAs and—"

Michael’s quiet chuckle puts an end to Adam’s rambling. “I don’t care about the NDAs, if you want to know about the song, I’ll tell you. It’s supposed to be called _Garden of Eden_. I have a verse and half an idea of the chorus, but it’s just not putting itself together.”

Adam offers, “If you play what you have, I might be able to help.”

“Okay, give me a second.”

Adam hears a shuffling sound as if Michael is rummaging for something. The question of what that is is answered when he hears the light strumming of guitar strings. While he waits for Michael to tune his guitar, Adam is suddenly struck with the realisation that Michael is trusting him enough to show him a song he probably hasn’t shown anyone else. Michael trusted him enough to let him help with his song after spending two nights with him.

Adam’s heart palpitates in his chest. The implicit trust feels undeserved, the more Adam thought about it, but before he can tell Michael that he doesn’t have to show him the song, Michael clears his throat.

“Ready?”

 _Too late._ Adam nods. “Yup.”

Michael plays a delicate stream of guitar notes, very different from the typical rock songs Give Up The Ghost normally does. Adam makes a mental note to ask if this is going to be released under the band's name or his own after Michael is done.

“ _For every dance move in the dark and every word you sing. Maybe with a stroke of luck, a life with you begins_ ,” Michael sings carefully. “ _This garden can’t stop us forever 'cause I’ll break these chains of rust. I hope one day we fall in love and feel the pain of trust._ ”

The strumming pattern changes slightly so it must be the bridge now. “ _Something grand awaits us beyond the golden gates._ ” Adam closes his eyes, letting himself get lost in the song and Michael’s voice. “ _Baby, I’ll take the risk if you do it too. We’ll commit holy crimes with serpent lies._ ”

Then the music gets quieter, still going on as Michael mumbles, “And then I got stuck.”

“ _If you forgive all my sins_ ,” Adam sings experimentally. “ _I’ll forgive all of yours._ ”

Michael’s palm rests over the strings, bringing all the guitar chords to silence. “That can work. That can _work_!” Adam strains his ears to listen as Michael puts the phone and guitar down, then he hears the faint sound of a pencil tip scratching on notebook paper. Michael mumbles Adam’s line under his breath as he writes it down.

Seconds pass as he hears more scribbling and then Adam realises that Michael might have forgotten he was on a call. The sound is relaxing though, so Adam won’t mind the explosive phone bill he’ll get from the call. As the time slips by, he hears Michael murmuring potential lyrics to himself and maybe he’ll pick up the guitar to see how it’ll go with a melody. Sometimes the line works and sometimes, it doesn’t.

At one point, Michael stops for a break and talks to himself. Adam considers hanging up to give him privacy but Michael’s already talking by the time Adam reaches that decision.

“Shit.”

Adam sits up a little to pay more attention as he hears Michael pace around the room, talking to himself. A lot of it is incoherent because of distance and volume but Adam can still make out a few words. “Crowley—this song—fuck that—”

Then, like lightning in a dark sky, “Adam.”

Adam jumps in surprise as Michael picks up the phone. There’s a muffled sound like he’s put it between his cheek and shoulder as Michael says, “Adam, oh my God, I’m sorry. I thought I hung up. How long was I gone for?”

“It’s okay.” Adam checks the clock on his bedside table. “Half an hour at most.”

"You didn't have to wait for me." Michael groans and promises, “I’ll pay your next telephone bill. I’m so sorry, Adam, that was extremely rude of me.”

“No, Michael, it’s fine. You were in the zone, it happens,” Adam quickly says. “What were you thinking about?”

“Uh,” Michael hesitates. “I found Crowley’s lyric book, he’s got a song I can’t allow to be released.”

Adam waits for elaboration but Michael stays silent, so he urges, “Do you want to talk about it?”

Michael pauses again. “We’d be veering dangerously close to relationship talk.”

“Oh.” Adam blinks, the words echoing in his mind. _Relationship talk? As in, the same kind of relationship as his anonymous partner? So, what, is Crowley his boyfriend or something? Is the song about his partner?_ Adam can't be more confused. "Sorry."

“No, _I’m_ sorry,” Michael sighs. “Talking about this sort of thing has never been my element. Maybe one day, I’ll tell you. I... I feel like I can tell you anything. There’s something about you, Adam. But I just can’t place it.”

“Maybe I have _mind control powers_ ,” Adam jokes, making wiggly motions with one of his hands, the other still holding the phone. “And I’m X-Men-ing you into talking to me.”

“X-Men-ing isn’t a word,” Michael says, amused. “Also, that would be a terrible waste of your talents. There is nothing interesting about me.”

“Michael, you’re probably the most interesting person in this state since, well, Dean moved out,” Adam says honestly. “Famous rock star from the great City of Angels who, for some reason, wants to stay in Kansas.” He says a little quieter, “There’s more to you than what people see... nobody knows what you don’t want them to know.”

Michael clears his throat; Adam had him nailed perfectly. “Yeah.”

“So we agree I’m part of the X-Men,” Adam says, jumping back on the joke.

He hears Michael _lose_ it from the other end of the phone as he says through his laughter, “You are not—Adam, X-Men don’t exist.”

Adam puts on a falsely appalled tone as he says, “You haven’t seen me, then!”

Michael chuckles, laughter dying down, and says, “I do want to see you.”

Adam can’t stop the grin that splits across his face. “Me too.”

He hears the sound of a pen tapping on what he assumes is a tabletop. “I’m stuck in the studio today but would you like to come keep me company?”

Unsure, Adam asks, “Won’t your bandmates feel weird having a stranger there?”

“I thought you met them at the Wichita show. They’ll remember you,” Michael points out. “And they won’t be there. It’s just me today. At most, Crowley or Lilith might drop by. So do you want to come along?”

Fuck it. Why not? Adam says yes and Michael says he’ll pick him up.

The band’s recording company has rented out a studio space in Kansas since most of the band decided to hang around the state for a while to unwind in peace after their tour. Kansas is neither too busy nor quiet and they all thought it was the perfect spot to relax. According to Michael, Crowley and Lilith are at the Holiday Inn in Wichita, in rooms that Chuck booked for them, while Meg is off at who-knows-where. Michael himself is either switching between the Holiday Inn or his brother Gabriel’s apartment depending on his mood.

As Michael’s fingers go through his keyring to find the right one for the studio, he says, “Normally, we use Columbia Records in New York City to record our music but since none of us wants to head up to New York, Chuck found this studio.” He finds the key and unlocks the door, clicking the light switch to illuminate the room with thin light. “Try not to touch the marked guitars or the drum set, none of them like when someone who isn’t in the band touches their instruments.”

The studio must be around the size of Adam’s bedroom if only a few inches wider. The walls are lined with at least twenty guitars of different models and colours, about six of them with masking tape that has ‘MEG’, ‘LL’ and ‘M’ written on them in thick black marker. There is a drum set with tapes across the front of the kick drum that says ‘GIVE UP THE GHOST’. On the small table is two empty bottles of beer and one notebook of frayed edges with Lilith’s name across the cover, a retractable pen on it that Adam is sure the ink has dried by now.

“Sit anywhere you like,” Michael says, taking one of the guitars with his name on it off the wall. “Do you want to play?”

“I thought you said try not to touch any of these,” Adam says, a playful smile on his face.

“None of theirs. What’s mine is yours, my friend,” Michael says and Adam takes the acoustic guitar from him. Michael reaches over to get one of Lilith’s bass guitars and strums to tune it. Michael’s guitar is already in tune, needing minimal adjustment, which means he’s probably been here a lot since stopping in Kansas.

Adam asks, “Did you know Dean went to Castiel’s book tour?”

Michael casts him a glance that screams ‘get me the hell out of here’ and says, “Cas would not stop going on about him. I think Dean has them wrapped around his finger.”

“Really? What did Castiel say?”

“He won’t tell me much, just that Dean was genuinely interested in their book and bought a few copies to give to his castmates. They went for coffee too, I believe,” Michael says, strumming stray notes on the bass. “I didn’t want to hear anything else about them so I told him to stop right there.”

Adam laughs, shaking his head. He’s known Dean for sixteen years and in that time, he’d come to realise that Dean is very charming with people he’s attracted to. “How much older is he than you, by the way?”

“4 years. Gabriel is 6 years older,” Michael answers, taking a notebook and tucking it into a shelf. Adam assumes it’s Crowley’s lyric book.

“Why’d they wait four years to have you?” Adam questions, his curiosity piqued. Sure, some families have children with gaps in their ages, but it still interested Adam all the same.

“They didn’t,” Michael clarifies. “I was adopted.”

Adam instantly apologises, “Is that a sensitive topic? I’m sorry.”

“Don't worry, it’s not,” Michael assures before he turns his attention to the guitar. "Can we just play something?"

Adam adjusts his hold on the guitar he borrowed; it smells a bit like the cologne Michael wears so he must use this one often. “Do you know _She’s A Rainbow_?”

“Rolling Stones, right? Yep.”

**December 19, 1980**

Since Adam visited him at the band’s rented studio, Michael had been coming and going from Kansas and New York. He lamented it as ‘a lot of Hollywood business I wish weren’t my problems’. Because Adam has already been through this before—his brothers unable to make time for him because of their Hollywood careers—he got it but it didn't mean he wasn't disappointed regardless that he would be robbed of some time with Michael. Not that he was owed any time from him but it'd be nice to be friends with Michael.

While Dean was a famous actor, Sam worked as his manager and an assistant director on films, some of which don’t include Dean as part of the cast. Adam actually quite liked the movies Sam has worked on and made it a point to support those just as much as he’s determined to catch every one of Dean’s movies on their premiere date.

In return, Sam tries his best to attend Adam’s short sets at the Roadhouse every Friday. Sam’s schedule is slightly more lenient compared to Dean’s because he has lesser projects. Dean tries to as well but there’s only so much he can do with insane filming hours. Adam’s grateful for any time he can have with them.

Sam bustles through the door of the Roadhouse like a whirlwind, stacks of scripts under one arm and his other hand occupied by a phone. “No—Gadreel, you cannot tell Al Pacino to get his own drink! Listen, if he tells you he wants it cold and the ice is all the way across set, you’re getting that ice!” He looks up and sees Adam, Jo, Ellen and Kevin staring at him and curses under his breath, turning away to speak a little quieter. “Alright, listen. You get one more chance. Disrespect cast again and you’re off. Swear to God, Gadreel.”

He hangs up and turns back to the others, dumping the scripts on a table. “Jesus. I hope I’m not late. Sorry about that.”

“Adam’s taking today off, you didn’t have to come,” Ellen says, cleaning out a glass before she lifts up a bottle of beer to Sam. “Need a drink?”

“It’s okay, I could use the break.” Sam shakes his head, sitting down at the counter between Jo and Adam. “Still on the job, can’t. But thanks, Ellen.”

“Gotcha.”

"How's the wedding planning going?" Kevin asks conversationally, gesturing to Ellen to pour a drink out for him since Sam won't have it.

Sam’s eyebrows rise to his hairline as his exhales. “It’s certainly going. There’s all sorts of levels to planning, you know? Colours, caterers, music talent, set location, costume, cast...”

“That’s an interesting way of lookin’ at it,” Ellen jokes.

Jo grins, amused, and says, “Sam, you’re talking like a director again.”

“Am I? Shit.” Sam scrubs his face with a hand tiredly. “Jess says I’ve been doing that a lot lately.”

“You’re just tired which is understandable. Running around doing all sorts of directing and with the wedding on top of that,” Adam reasons. “But if you need to find a musician for the wedding, I’m sure Dean or Michael can help you out.”

Sam frowns, looking over at his brother. “Who’s Michael?”

“Novak, from that band that played in Wichita last month or so,” Ellen provides, sliding Adam and Kevin's drinks over to them across the bar top. "Dark hair, green eyes, if I remember. Yay big."

“Oh, from Give Up The Ghost?” Sam realises. He turns to Adam as if he’d had new energy breathed into him. “Are you saying you can get that band to play at the wedding? Jess loves their music!”

Adam falters, saying, “Um, I don’t know if I can get them to do it. Y’know, I was thinking more along the lines of asking them for _referrals_ —"

Sam bargains, "If you book Give Up The Ghost, you won't have to get us a wedding present."

Adam protests, "Wh—You knew I was saying mine would never compare to Dean's! How can you propose this?"

With a shit-eating grin, Sam says, “Because you’ll have to say yes.” A little less jokingly, he adds, “Okay, look, you don’t even have to actually book them. At least help me check if they’re available? They’ve never done wedding shows so I wasn’t sure, but it’d be a nice surprise for Jess, right?”

“Okay, I’ll try,” Adam concedes. “But no promises.”

Sam chuckles, leaning over to give Adam a hug that, with his towering height, completely envelopes the younger of them. “Thanks, Adam. You’re the best.”

**December 31, 1980**

**— Trenton, New Jersey —  
** **Trenton State Hospital**

When Michael turned 10 years old, his adoptive father Jimmy Novak started to talk about angels conversing with him, at first it had been funny. Amelia was amused by the things Jimmy would say they told him, things like lottery numbers and promotions that never came to pass. He’d tell his sons that the angels had purposes awaiting them.

Then when it got worse and she caught Jimmy before he could dump his hand into a pot of boiling water, something he said the angels asked him to do, Amelia had had enough. When Michael was 13, Amelia admitted Jimmy into a mental institute in New Jersey, Trenton State Hospital.

After a week of taking care of three teenage boys on her own, Amelia couldn’t take it. One night, she’d taken them to the cinema to catch _My Fair Lady_. Michael loved it—he rarely spent time with Amelia and he knew she hated him, so he treasured the chance to pretend that he could be a good son to her. The cab ride home was noisy because Michael, Castiel and Gabriel all loved the songs from the musical movie.

“ _By George, she’s got it. By George, she’s got it!_ ” Gabriel started once they got into the cab. “ _Now, once again, where does it rain?_ ”

“ _On the plain, on the plain_ ,” Castiel chimed in happily as Michael got himself settled right by the window in the backseat. Amelia stayed in the passenger next to the driver, a cigarette in his hand that was hanging out of the window.

Gabriel leaned forward to look at Michael as the cab started moving. “ _And where’s that soggy plain?_ ”

“ _In Spain, in Spain!_ ” Castiel sang.

Michael let himself feel happy for just a few minutes and sang, “ _The rain in Spain stays mainly in the plain._ ”

They’d sung that song and many others when they got home and Michael grew a love for music that night. A part of him thought that perhaps, with a bit of luck, it could be something that would for a bond between him and Amelia. Now that Jimmy was gone and Amelia was the only parental figure he had left, it's not like he had any other choices. Amelia kissed their foreheads goodnight.

In the morning, Gabriel woke him up with a piece of letter. In Amelia’s pretty handwriting, she detailed how she had called someone to come get them by the evening and that she couldn’t do it on her own. That afternoon, the three boys were all packed and taken in by Amelia’s friend, a female sheriff named Jody Mills who lived with a detective called Donna Hanscum.

They never saw Amelia again. When Michael turned 20, Gabriel told him and Castiel that they should accept that she was dead or never coming back.

Trenton State Hospital is a cold place. Not just because of the state when it’s so close to January, but because Michael feels almost frozen every time he visits. He’s always worried about how Jimmy is doing there and the more self-concerned part of him is guilty about being such a terrible son that his mother threw him there and he couldn’t stop it.

Though Michael knew that being around professionals who knew how to handle him may be best for Jimmy, he still missed his father. Yes, Jody and Donna did the best they could and they’re lovely but Michael’s allowed to miss him. If it weren’t for Jimmy, he might still be that nameless infant on the steps of a church. No home, no name, no family. He owed it all to Jimmy’s kind heart.

His love for his father doesn’t make visiting him any easier.

A nurse leads Michael to the garden where Jimmy is sitting on a bench, watching the sky as the winds gently push the clouds across the azure. There is peace on his face and a faint smile that touches his eyes.

“Hello, Dad,” Michael greets softly.

Jimmy looks over and grins, shifting on the bench to make room. “Hi, Michael! Come, sit.” Michael sits next to him, following his gaze to the horizon. “How’ve you been?”

 _I met this boy_ , Michael wants to tell him. _His name is Adam. There’s something about his face that I can’t forget. It’s like he haunts me._ Instead, he says, “Good. The band finished the tour a while back, we closed in Kansas. Wichita, I think you said you were there once, right? We played Hartman Arena."

Jimmy pulls a face of recognition. “Hartman Arena? How many does that seat?"

“About 5000.”

“ _Incredible_ ,” Jimmy gasps. “Why didn’t they get you a bigger arena?”

Michael chuckles, shaking his head as he shifts a bit closer to his father. “They can’t expand the arena and it’s the biggest one they had in Kansas. The crowd made up for the smaller number.”

Jimmy nods to say it makes sense, then he says, “I’m so proud of you. I always knew it, that you were gonna grow up to be amazing. Do you remember when you were a kid, I think around... 6? You heard the new Sinatra album and you were obsessed with this one song, ‘ _What Is This Thing Called Love?_ ’, and you sang it almost every day.” Jimmy lets out a short fond laugh. “I mean, given that you were 6, it wasn’t extraordinary, I won’t lie.”

Michael _doesn't_ remember actually but he pushes aside the blurry memory to laugh and nod in agreement. Jimmy continues, “But I could see it in your eyes. It's like something had changed. You loved it and it wasn’t just the song. You loved the music, it was like you _lived_ for it.”

Michael smiles. “I do live for it. I might not have if you never showed me all your amazing records.”

“Nonsense. You never needed my taste in music. You just needed a push in the right direction,” Jimmy denies. “The thing about you is that you just always knew what was right for you. I think I wish I was as sure of myself as you always were.”

“I’m not always sure,” Michael corrects.

“You know exactly what you want and nothing stops you from getting it. I’d say that’s very sure to me,” Jimmy says encouragingly. “You’re a real go-getter. You know, Gabriel, he does what he wants. I think he’s doing fantastic as an impersonator. Cas, they’re telling all sorts of stories, he did always like writing in school. You’re doing what you want as well, out of pure hard work, and it’s a beautiful thing! It’s beautiful to get to see you live and breathe the things you want.”

Michael takes in a deep breath. “Not everything.” He hesitates, eyeing the nurse standing close by, and decides that it’s not a good idea to get honest while he’s here with not much privacy. He keeps his words vague. “Dad, there’s... there are things about myself that I don’t know what to do with. I don’t think it’s bad. No, I _know_ it isn’t, but I worry about how people’s opinion of me will change. I spent a long time trying to create the image of this perfect man who could do anything so people would love me. This part of me might take that away and I’m not sure what I will do if it does.”

It’s the most honest version of Michael that Jimmy will be getting any time soon.

“I have a feeling that you won’t tell me what this part of you is supposed to be,” Jimmy guesses. Michael shakes his head to say he won’t and Jimmy nods. “That’s alright. But my take on this is—and take it with a grain of salt because I don’t know the full scope of your situation—my take is that if people truly loved you, then this part of you won’t change that. It’d be ridiculous! Unless you’re a serial killer which I suppose you’d get some well-deserved eyebrow raises.” Jimmy pretends to wave a knife around to get Michael to chuckle. “Alright, the point is that you don’t need to be perfect to get people to love you, Michael. ‘Perfect’ is unattainable.”

Jimmy pauses as if someone else is talking to him and Michael waits patiently.

“Ah,” Jimmy says after a few moments. “They have something to say.”

Michael smiles slightly, trying not to show his concern that Jimmy still hears ‘angels’. “What is it?”

“Now, I know what you all think about my condition, but I think you’d like to hear this,” Jimmy prefaces. “They said, and I quote: ‘You are worthy as you are. There’s no need to pretend. We know your love is pure’.”

The eeriness of how well the hallucinated quote fits his life has Michael thinking for a second that his father may not be schizophrenic after all, and then Jimmy adds like an afterthought, “And that there are too many clouds, it’s blocking the sun.”

“Even angels can get bothered by some clouds, huh?” Michael humours. He’d been a little hesitant before to play along but apparently, it’s better if he doesn’t agitate him and leave reality to the professionals.

“Not Heaven,” Jimmy clarifies. “You. You seem... unhappy. Are you?”

Michael clears his throat, guilty. “Yes.”

It’s scary sometimes, how well Jimmy knows his sons. He could always tell when any of them were having a bad day and, like the good father he was, he knew how to make them feel better.

“I know what will cheer you up,” Jimmy says, getting up from the bench. He draws in a breath and then sings, “ _What is this thing called love? This funny thing called love._ ”

“ _Just who can solve its mystery?_ ” Michael sings as he stands, a smile growing on his face. His singing has come a long way from 6 years old. He's no Frank Sinatra but he's good. “ _Why should it make a fool of me?_ ”

Jimmy nods as if the lyrics were making a point for him. “ _I saw you there one wonderful day..._ ”

“ _You took my heart and threw my heart away_ ,” Michael continues, the image of Adam wrestling its way to the forefront of his mind. Michael had no idea why this boy has been all over his thoughts ever since Black Rose. There’s something about his face. “ _That’s why I ask the Lord up in Heaven above, what is this thing called love?_ ”

“Your love is pure,” Jimmy repeats his words from earlier, reaching out to pull his son into an embrace. “Michael, you have nothing to worry about. If it helps any, I’ll love you no matter what.”

“Thank you, Dad,” Michael says, wrapping his arms around Jimmy. He’s a little taller than him yet it feels like Jimmy has him covered completely in his hug. “I love you.”

**— Lawrence, Kansas —**

“ _I know it was pure, at least on my end. I know you’re not happy here._ ”

Adam sings the words as his fingers dance across the strings of his guitar, unsure of the chords as he tries to figure them out on his own. He thinks about the next line and its instrumentals before he nods to himself, continuing to sing the next line of one of Give Up The Ghost’s songs, Divine Rush. “ _So why don’t we pretend? Say there’s something here_.”

The guitar gets a little slower. “ _That there was a divine rush_ ,” Adam sings. “ _Every time we moved._ ”

His fingers falter over the strings as he considers a different, more fitting, chord before he goes on. “ _I like the morning breeze, you want to keep the curtains closed._ ” He strums a little louder to suit the original song. “ _I’ll learn to live in the dark if you’re really that opposed._ ”

Then his palm falls over the strings when he realises that the song was written by Crowley. His conversation with Michael from the other day intrudes on his mind and Adam starts to wonder how many songs has Crowley written that may possibly be about Michael’s partner or even Michael himself.

Before he can think about it too much, he hears something tap on his window. He frowns, turning to the window to see that there’s nothing there. Maybe it’s that bird that gets irritable at his window sometimes and raps on the glass. He should talk to Bobby about it tomorrow.

As soon as he turns away, he hears two more taps and he sighs, walking over to the window and raising it to come face to face with Michael, standing on the stairs that go from the alley to his bedroom window. He holds a bottle of wine in one hand, wearing a plain white shirt that has the top three buttons open and black pants. His crucifix necklace glistens with the bedroom light. His dark hair is messy in a good way and it’s certainly not fair that he looks this good at this time of night.

Adam folds his arms on the windowsill. “Michael, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to see you,” Michael admits. “It’s New Year's Eve and my brothers have their own plans and my Dad insists that I spend it with my friends instead of with him. The band has plans too—"

Adam smiles, amused. “So you’re saying I was your last choice?”

“ _No_ ,” Michael quickly says. “I didn’t want to sound desperate. I don’t actually know what any of them are doing tonight, I bought this wine and came here. I got your address from Ellen, I hope you don’t mind.”

“Why didn’t you just come in from the front door?” Adam questions, trying to bite back the smile that threatens to show.

“Your landlord won’t let me in at such a late hour,” Michael says. “He seems grumpy.”

Adam bursts out laughing, raising the window the rest of the way and stepping aside. “That can be true, but Bobby can be nice when you get to know him. Come in, then.”

Michael smiles, pointing upwards. “I was thinking that we could take this to the roof? I heard that there’s supposed to be fireworks at midnight.”

That’s how Adam follows Michael up to the roof where they agree to share the wine bottle. By that point, it was already 11:48 PM so they wouldn’t have to wait much longer for the fireworks. Once they’re settled, Michael asks, “What were you doing when before I came here?”

Michael pops the cork out as Adam answers, “Figuring out the chords to some of your band’s songs.”

“Oh, which one?”

“ _Divine Rush_ ,” Adam answers, accepting the opened bottle from Michael to take a gulp.

“Crowley’s,” Michael notes, trying to act like it doesn’t bother him. Adam likes to think he knew Michael well enough, that they were enough of kindred spirits, for him to see that the song doesn’t have any favours with Michael. “I can give you the sheet music for guitar if you want. Meg makes it a point to make acoustic versions of all the songs.”

“I’d like that,” Adam says. “Thanks.”

Michael smiles—there’s something about his face this close to his own, and then Adam realises that the last time they were this close was when they were dancing in Black Rose. His eyes drop to Michael’s mouth against his best efforts but it seems like Michael doesn’t notice, grabbing the bottle and taking a swig from it.

Adam recalls Sam’s bargain and starts, “Michael, I need to ask you something. My brother Sam is getting married in a few months and they want a musician at the wedding. His fiancée Jess, she’s a big fan of Give Up The Ghost...”

“Are you helping him book us for his wedding?” Michael catches on.

Adam winces. “Yeah. I know, it’s so awful to take advantage of our friendship like this, but he wanted me to ask you.”

“Telling your family about me already? Adam, you flatter me,” Michael jokes, making Adam’s face turn red. Thank God it’s too dark to see his embarrassment. “I’m happy to do it, consider it a wedding gift. I’ll talk to my band but if they won’t do it, I’m willing to play a few songs alone for free.”

Adam protests, “For free? No, you’ll be paid, I promise. Sam and Jess would not let you leave without your money.”

“Again, they can consider it a wedding gift,” Michael says. “When’s the wedding?”

“Sometime next fall,” Adam answers.

“Perfect,” Michael says, right as the first firework of the night explodes in the sky above them as people cheer in the streets, little bits of dispersed joy at the beginning of a new year ahead. Michael regards the sky—Adam stares at Michael’s profile, lit up by sparks, washed in all the colours of a rainbow.

 _Perfect_.

Adam feels completely pathetic. It'd be so easy to tell Michael that he quite likes him but he can never get the words out.

**January 3, 1981**

**— New York City —**

When Michael was 25 and looking for a way into the music industry, Jody introduced him to a man named Dearil Reaper. Dearil has black hair and wore suits every time Michael saw him. He looks ancient yet timeless at the same time, the lines in his face telling all the stories and experiences in his life that Michael can only imagine.

Dearil posed as a father figure of sorts to Michael because Jimmy couldn’t be around. He’d been the one to show him the ropes of Hollywood, teaching him how to tell good contracts from bad ones, what deals to take or trash. How to find band members that will take you as far as The Beatles got, or make you the next Queen.

He was good and Michael knew it. He looked up to him for everything regarding his career. When he found and secured his bandmates, he’d gotten all three of them on board with the idea of employing Dearil as their agent. However, Dearil’s agency handed them off to Chuck Shurley instead and the band hated him. Chuck is skittish, thinking more about the money than the art, and Michael was constantly wondering how long it would be until he walked out on the band for one that raked in more profit.

Dearil went on to become the agent of a very talented actress flown in from England, a pretty brunette named Bela Talbot. Michael had seen some of her movies and, in his honest opinion, she was better than many of the actresses he’d seen. People described her to be quite fake in reality but when Michael met her, it seemed like she was genuine. She gave Michael a smile other men would have killed to see and she asked him to get a drink with her. She had nerves of steel with the stilettos to show it and Michael adored her unapologetic confidence.

In a different life, Michael might have been able to love her back. In a different life, Michael might not have thought he had to hide behind a beautiful girl to be loved by the public.

With Chuck as Michael’s manager and Dearil as Bela’s, it also means that they don’t necessarily keep tabs on each other’s decisions for their own clients. Chuck doesn’t care what Dearil has planned for Bela and vice versa which is a terrible system if he and Bela are supposed to be dating.

It leads to the current situation: Michael and Dearil are in the lobby of BMG, the agency Dearil worked for, discussing publicity plans for Bela’s new Superman movie. Michael recalled when she’d gotten the role. Bela was so excited about it, dragging Michael to some book shops to buy Superman comic books so she would know exactly how to portray Lois Lane. He knew the role was important to her. He’s not quite sure why.

“I assume you’re aware of how _Superman_ will be starting production soon,” Dearil starts. “There will be ads, her fans will be trying to keep up with her so they know all the latest information about the movie.”

Michael nods—it’s basic celebrity knowledge.

"You know that she's starring opposite Dean Winchester." Dearil continues. “I believe it’s best for Bela’s career to date Winchester for publicity, regarding the _Superman_ film. I know you’re dating her and I have asked her about this. She’s willing to do the publicity stunt but only with your consent—”

“I understand. For the good of her career, she should go through with it,” Michael cuts over, approving. “I’m perfectly alright with it.”

Dearil pauses. “Well, I anticipated more reluctance but I suppose it’s better to not argue.”

“She said this role was personal. I’m not standing in the way of the film doing well,” Michael says. “Our relationship wasn’t very publicised to begin with so it should be easy for you to establish one between her and Dean.”

Dearil raises an eyebrow, curious. “First name basis. You know Winchester?”

“Barely. I met him through his brother,” Michael clarifies. Though he did meet the eldest Winchester before, it was only once and Michael can’t say he knew him well enough. “Not the director.”

“Ah,” Dearil notes. “No wonder it was so easy to agree.”

 _That’s not the reason_ , Michael thinks, but says nothing. Dearil turns to him, losing all trace of business on his face as he asks, “How have you been, Michael? Last I saw you, you were on tour in Michigan. Clarkston, I believe.”

“We finished the tour in Kansas, I’ve been hanging around there for a break,” Michael says. Dearil opens his mouth and Michael holds up a hand, adding, “I know, Kansas is a terrible place to conclude a tour.”

“It’s horribly anticlimactic.” Dearil scoffs. “I don’t expect more from Shurley. Your band would do much better with me.”

“I know,” Michael agrees. “I tried really hard to get you as our manager. I don’t know why everyone was so insistent on us being managed by Chuck instead.”

“Because you were new,” Dearil says. “And people hate what they’re unfamiliar with.”

**January 12, 1981**

**— Las Vegas, Nevada —**  
**Riviera Hotel and Casino**

While Michael is a rock star with the media painting him as some casanova with an ego problem and Castiel is a fiction writer who has been branded the ‘more literary’ brother, Gabriel is very different. He performs in nightclubs and casinos as a drag queen.

Michael, for the life of him, cannot remember at what point of their childhood did Gabriel grow an interest in the art form but as long as he enjoyed it, Michael didn’t care. Gabriel seems to be a master at his work anyway. Michael doesn’t think he’s seen another drag artist who does their makeup quite as expertly as Gabriel does. 

Gabriel often does his performances in New York or Las Vegas, mainly because it’s much easier to book shows there, according to Gabriel. He mainly worked under the name of The Trickster which Castiel doesn’t think is a very good alias compared to some of the other performers but Gabriel thought it lent to the fact that he was supposed to be an illusion.

Today, he’d invited Castiel and Michael to come to see one of his shows in Las Vegas at the Riviera Hotel and Casino. Michael had heard of the place through industry friends who knew Frank Marino, another female impersonator.

Michael steers the car left. “Where is it?”

Castiel squints at Gabriel’s messy handwriting on the note, trying to read it. “2901 South LV Boulevard.” They look up, glancing around with unsure eyes as he asks, “Is this even Nevada? I don't remember it looking like this. Are you sure we’re in Winchester?”

Michael jokes, making another turn, “Castiel, I don’t want to know if you’re in _any_ Winchester.”

“ _Michael!_ ” Castiel splutters. “I don’t—We—"

"Relax, I'm pulling your leg," Michael grins. "Yes, we're in Winchester."

Castiel huffs, folding the note back up. “A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ would have sufficed.” A few more turns and red lights later, they finally pull up next to a tall cylindrical-shaped building, its silver form glistening under the moonlight and reflecting the street lamps. Castiel gapes, “It’s pretty.”

It does look stunning at this time of night. Michael’s not sure how easy on the eyes such a reflective building can be in the daytime but in the dark? It’s beautiful.

Inside, the floor tiles are black, reflecting gold lights from the ceiling. Michael and Castiel don’t have too much time to take it in until Gabriel runs over to them, face half-covered in dramatic makeup. “Mike! Cassie!”

Castiel grins, letting Gabriel hug them hello. “Gabriel, you look stunning already.”

“I’m always stunning,” Gabriel says before pulling away to get Michael in an embrace as well. Michael wraps his arms around his older brother—it’s a little hilarious that though he’s the youngest, Michael is also the tallest among the three of them. Though, it must mean his biological parents are tall. One more part of a puzzle that Michael will never get all the pieces to.

Gabriel breaks away from the hug and says, “Follow me, I’ll get you two a good table, then I have to finish up my look.” He brings them to a small round table at what he claims is a good spot to see everything, then he starts singing some show tune and disappears behind the stage.

“He’s in a good mood,” Castiel comments and suddenly, Michael is hyper-aware of just how many people are coming in to take their seats. He unconsciously starts to shrink into himself, his hands coming up to shield his face from people who might recognise him. Every time he catches someone’s eyes as they pass by, it feels like his career will be over tomorrow. He wasn’t ashamed to be here, he was just scared about people thinking he didn’t deserve a career if they saw him.

His fingers itch on his skin—he wishes he didn’t feel like this. He wished he was more like his brothers who didn’t care what anyone thought. Logic tells him that all these patrons won’t care if he’s here and likely won’t even notice his presence. Paranoia screams at him that they will hunt him down tomorrow.

“Mikey, hey,” Gabriel says, snapping Michael out of his funk. “Are you alright?”

“Just...” Michael trails off, feeling guilt wash over him. “Do you have a cap or something?” Gabriel, ever the most empathetic of them, holds up a finger to tell him to wait before he disappears through a staff door. Michael glances over at Castiel who has busied himself with observing the decorations and puts a hand over one side of his face as if trying to hide. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” Castiel says, pulling his gaze away from the patterned ceiling to look at him. “Gabriel knows you're just being careful about your work. We get it."

 _No, that’s not what’s happening_ , Michael wants to say but the words are stuck in his throat. “I’m not... I want to be here.”

“You don’t have to lie,” Castiel assures. Though his tone conveys light-hearted conversation, his words hurt because it’s not what Michael intends at all but none of his explanations will come out.

“Castiel, I swear I want to be here. I’m not ashamed to be at this show,” Michael insists. Castiel finally pulls their gaze off the menu and raises an eyebrow at Michael but before he can say anything in response, Gabriel returns.

He holds up two different masks in each hand—one of them is plain white and only covers half the face while the other is a bejewelled golden masquerade mask with one long faux feather extending from each side. He explains, “The other girls took all the hats and we don’t have much in the way of masks, so it’s either this gorgeous masquerade mask or the one from _The Phantom of the Opera_. I know you don’t like flashy stuff but I think the masquerade one has better coverage.”

“It’s fine,” Michael mutters, holding out a hand for the mask. “I’ll take the Phantom one.”

“Alright, but the others are only willing to loan it to you on one condition,” Gabriel says.

Michael’s open hand closes. “And what condition is that, pray tell?”

“That you sing at least one song before you leave,” Gabriel bargains. “Deal?”

Castiel gives him a smile that’s only semi-comforting at best. His eyes still carry the misunderstanding from their earlier conversation. “It’s just a song. You’ve performed in sold-out stadiums. What’s one night in a club with barely twenty in attendance?”

Gabriel nods, grinning. “Exactly! Will you do it? Come on, bro, I rarely get to hear you sing and you’ll be hearing me sing tonight, so...”

“Fine,” Michael concedes. “Give me the mask.”

With a grin, Gabriel hands it over and Michael puts it on, looking at himself in the reflection of a glass he took from a passing waiter. Covering a portion of his face, Michael figures that the dim lighting will do the rest of the coverage for him. Onstage is a different story but Michael figures that he’ll do an exciting song so he’ll move around a lot and avoid anyone getting a firm look at his face.

Gabriel disappears backstage to get ready and Michael sinks into his seat, folding his arms. Castiel looks back at him and finished his interrupted thought, “Michael, can I be frank with you?" Michael nods and Castiel turns in his seat a little to face him. "I don't know what's going on in your mind. I really don't. Over the years, I've tried to understand, see things your way, but I have never once succeeded. Do you remember when I found you in the bathroom? I think you were 21 at the time."

Michael reaches back into his memory—his memory has only been getting worse as the years pass and Michael grew increasingly afraid of the idea of losing his childhood to time. He was mostly afraid of losing all the memories he had with Jimmy. When your father’s locked up in an institute, it doesn’t leave much room to make new memories. He admits, “No.”

“It was the first time we caught you high,” Castiel clarifies. “You said you wanted to feel like... like Pinocchio? Like you didn’t have any strings on yourself. I never understood who was ‘controlling’ you and you never elaborated when you sobered up.”

Michael says dryly, “Funny.”

Castiel’s face melts into one of concern and he says, “Michael, will you talk to me? I want to help you. You’re my brother—“

“Because Father told you to treat me like that,” Michael cuts over.

Castiel freezes as if Michael’s words have burned them. “You don’t seriously think you’re my brother because Dad said so, right? Michael, family isn’t...”

“I know it’s not defined by blood,” Michael says. “I just don’t feel like I’m part of the family.”

Castiel hesitates for a moment before saying, “I know our mom was never the nicest to you and I’m sorry for that, but you have to know that Dad, Gabriel and I all love you as our family. Do you believe me?”

Michael can’t find an answer.

Michael can’t find an answer. The stage lights dim and Gabriel comes on stage with another drag queen—Michael doesn’t hear what their name is but they’re performing some Diana Ross song together called ‘ _I’m Coming Out_ ’. _The irony of it_ , Michael almost laughs.

When he realises he’s not getting an answer, Castiel changes gears. “I know something has been bothering you. I see it whenever I talk to you, there’s this weight in your shoulders. You never have it when you’re performing but when you’re offstage, on normal ground with the rest of us, you look so tired, like you’re shouldering some great burden. Michael, you’re not alone. We’ll always support you so will you please let me help you? Aren’t you tired yet?”

He _is_ tired. Michael can hear his heart in his ears.

“ _The time has come for me to break out of this shell_ ,” Gabriel sings on the stage, painted in pretty blues and pinks. “ _I have to shout that I am coming out!_ ”

Castiel tries, “Michael?”

“I’m sorry, I can’t,” Michael says, the mask on his face feeling even more obvious. “I’m sorry.”

“ _I’m coming out! I want the world to know, gotta let it show..._ ”

“You can tell me whenever you’re ready, I’ll be here,” Castiel assures. “You’re my brother no matter what.”

“I wish I believed it, Cas, I really do,” Michael mumbles. It has nothing to do with their biological relations, rather that Michael didn’t feel like he lived up to the idea of a good son or a perfect brother well enough to be considered a part of the Novak family. Michael acts like he’s higher than angels sometimes—maybe Crowley is right about him having an ego problem—but regardless of how he felt, he's still too small to talk to God. He'll never be enough.

Gabriel and his friend dance around each other on the stage, happily singing, " _There’s so much more to me. Somehow I’ll have to make them just understand._ "

Is that how it feels for Crowley when he sings the queer songs he wrote? It’s processing way too belatedly that Crowley’s songs might actually be about him and Michael let them go on the records. Though, nobody ever caught on because of his cover with Bela.

Castiel sighs. "How do I prove it to you?"

“You don’t,” Michael says. “It’s _my_ problem, Cas.”

That brings their talk to a close until Gabriel finishes the song, then it’s complete silence between them for the next five songs from various performers until finally, Gabriel comes up to their table to invite Michael onto the stage. He brings with him the masquerade mask from earlier and offers, “This one’s still available if you want to switch.”

“The one I have is fine,” Michael insists, standing. “I’ll do _Do Ya Think I’m Sexy_ by Rod Stewart.”

“Someone knows how to get a crowd going!” Gabriel says, grinning before he leaves to get the instrumental set up. Michael goes to the bathroom to check his reflection before going on stage and God, did he hate the man looking back at him. _Why haven’t you dropped dead yet?_

“Our esteemed guests, I give to you... our mystery man with _Do Ya Think I'm Sexy_ ,” Gabriel introduces just as Michael goes on the stage. He will forget who he is for the next five minutes; as long as he’s singing Rod Stewart’s words, Michael Novak doesn’t exist.

“ _He sits alone waiting for suggestions. He’s so nervous avoiding all the questions_ ,” Michael sings when the instrumental gets to the first verse. He’d changed the pronouns in the song to better fit the audience and it felt right. Deep down, it’s like an admission to himself that he’s alright. “ _His lips are dry, his heart is gently pounding. Don’t you just know exactly what they’re thinking?_ ”

“ _His heart’s beating like a drum, is he gonna get this boy home?_ ” Michael sings, a grin slowly splitting across his face as he slips unconsciously into his stage persona. “ _Well, soon, baby, we’ll be all alone. Don’t you just know exactly what they’re thinking?_ ”

He dips the microphone stand down like a dance partner, connecting eyes with a very attractive man sitting right in front of the stage. “ _If you want my body and you think I’m sexy. Come on, sugar, tell me so. If you really need me, just reach out and touch me. Come on, honey, tell me so!_ ”

The man is smiling right at him. Michael pushes through to continue the song. “ _He’s acting shy, looking for an answer. Come on, honey, let’s spend the night together! Now hold on a minute before we go much further, give me a dime so I can phone my mother_.” He crosses to the other end of the stage. “ _They catch a cab to his high-rise apartment. At last, he can tell exactly what his heart meant!_ ”

“ _If you want my body and you think I’m sexy, come on, sugar, tell me so_ ,” Michael sings, lost to the music that he forgets people are watching. “ _If you really need me, just reach out and touch me. Come on, honey, tell me so._ ”

The man from the front row throws something onto the stage, a piece of crumpled paper. Michael bends down swiftly to pick it up, unfolding it with one hand to read what it is—a phone number. Michael tucks the paper into his jacket pocket as discreetly as he can.

“ _I like this, I like this, I like this_ ,” he sings, but it sounds like he’s trying and failing to convince himself that he likes his life and himself, and hiding phone numbers in jacket pockets.

 _My love is pure_ , Michael repeats in his mind. _My love is pure._


End file.
